


Christmas Cheer

by trollopfop (storyinmypocket)



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-30
Updated: 2009-04-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 22:12:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyinmypocket/pseuds/trollopfop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gene's not spending Christmas alone if Sam has anything to say about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Cheer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allfireburns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allfireburns/gifts).



> Prompt: "winter".

The problem with winter in Manchester was that it never properly snowed. Let other people dream of white Christmases -- the average Mancunian would settle for a _dry_ Christmas.

Gene Hunt, for his part, would settle for a Christmas not spent alone with a bottle of whiskey. He might've been happily married, for a certain definition of happy which was based on a complete lack of communication, but come Christmastime, the missus would trek off to visit her mum. Alone.

Not that he minded, given that his feelings for his mother-in-law made the feelings of a suspected heretic towards a medieval Inquisitor seem warm and brotherly by comparison, but it didn't change the fact that excessive alcohol (if there was such a thing) and the yearly joy of threatening to shoot carolers did not a happy Christmas make.

Still, that didn't mean he expected to find Sam Tyler at his door on Christmas Day, especially not with it pissing rain and cold as a witch's tit in a brass brassiere... but there he was, shivering slightly with the vague expression of annoyance Gene had come to expect from him.

The only logical thing to do was drag Sam in by his collar. He couldn't very well have his DI catching his death lurking on his very doorstep, could he? It was only after he'd shoved a towel in Sam's face and a bottle into his hand that he bothered asking the logical question.

"And just what are you doing here, then?"

"Would you believe," Sam asked, cocking an eyebrow, "that I'm here to spread Christmas cheer?"

Gene snorted. "Unless that Christmas cheer's at least 80-proof, I've got as much use for it as a tart has for a nunnery, Dorothy."

Sam didn't seem to be listening, though, examining the paperwork and empty bottles strewn over every flat surface, the grease-stained bits of newspaper that until recently had contained chips. "When was the last time you ate something that didn't come from a chip shop?" he asked, poking at a pile of debris with a dubious expression.

"A week ago, when the missus was here," Gene said. "Don't tell me you've decided you're me sainted _mum_ , Tyler. Or the wife, though if you're really that set on it, I'm sure she's left her apron about somewhere..."

Sam glared, but didn't seem inclined to leave, and Gene wasn't precisely sure he wanted him to. Instead, he was treated to the sight of his DI rummaging through the refrigerator and cabinets both as if they'd personally offended him.

"Should I just tell the missus to go looking for you when she starts whingeing about something out of place, then?"

"And here I thought you'd enjoy a good row," Sam muttered, digging out things that Gene only vaguely recognised as ingredients.

"I get enough of that at work, don't I? No reason to get it again when I come home." Gene peered at the stockpile of things Sam was gathering on the countertop and shook his head. "What's half of that even supposed to be?"

"It's called food, Guv. Real food, with real ingredients. Shockingly enough, it's better for you than most of what you've been shoveling in your mouth lately."

Watching him, Gene had a sneaking suspicion he knew what had sent Sam here in the first place. "...Did Cartwright put you up to this?"

Sam very pointedly said nothing, and set to work chopping vegetables Gene didn't know he had.

"That's the trouble with women in CID. Always sticking their noses where they're not wanted. If Flash-Knickers paid half as much attention to collaring scum as she did to CID gossip, there wouldn't be a criminal left in this city." Gene crossed his arms and leaned against the kitchen wall, trying not to look sullen. It was his business, wasn't it? He didn't need Tyler coming in and...

"Guv, I know this is very, _very_ hard for you, but do you think you could stop being a raging misogynist long enough for me to make sure you eat something that _won't_ clog your arteries for once? Ta very much."

Gene muttered, and glowered, and finally moved to stand over Sam's shoulder. A bit odd, that. They hadn't been quite so close since... Well, that, he wasn't going to bring up. Or think about. Or... anything, really.

Whatever else he might be, Gene Hunt wasn't a bleeding fairy, certain incidents with his DI notwithstanding.

"What's it matter to you if my Christmas dinner comes from the pub or not, Tyler?"

Sam put the knife down, turning to face Gene, far too close for even an illusion of a casual encounter. "It matters."

"Does it? DC Cartwright not around for you to snog her senseless, then?" If there was bitterness in his voice, Gene wasn't about to admit to it. Nor was he about to back off -- backing off meant he had a reason, and that brought him right back to things he wasn't about to let himself think of.

"She's not-- she's visiting family. Where else," Sam asked, arching an eyebrow, "was I supposed to go?"

"Oh, trust me, Tyler, I've got plenty of sugges--"

Gene was abruptly silenced by Sam's lips on his, one of Sam's hands finding its way to his hair, Sam's body pressed against his...

And then Sam pulled away, something in his eyes that was three parts defiance to seven parts uncertainty.

"...Happy Christmas, Guv."

Gene blinked and stared down at Sam, trying to process things in some kind of logical order.

He'd never been that good at logic.

Finally, the only thing his mind could present as an option, after it had run 'round in circles a few times, was to lean down and kiss Sam again, doing a proper job of it, this time.

Couldn't go letting a moment's surprise ruin his reputation, after all.

When he finally pulled away, it's was Sam's turn to blink, looking stunned.

"...Guv?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm working. Get out of the kitchen."

"You're going to tell me what to do in me own bloody--"

 _"Get. Out."_

Stern as his expression tried to be, there was still the tiniest smirk hovering around the corners of Sam's mouth.

Gene got out.

 _Happy Christmas, indeed._


End file.
